Maybe Together We Can Get Somewhere
by Center of the Galaxy
Summary: After a car accident leaves him stranded, Sam's badly injured. Help comes from the person he least expected . . . his dead father. *hurt!Sam, Ghost!John, one-shot*


_**Author's Note:**_ _I've been writing a lot for a hurt!Sam challenge over at OhSam so I'll be cross-posting a few stories to here, all filled with hurt!Sam goodness of course. The prompt for this was 1) The Impala, 2) Ghost!John and 3) Car accident. I set this sort of in season 7 but there aren't any major spoilers for it. Please enjoy!_

* * *

" _You got a fast car_

 _Is it fast enough so we can fly away?"_

— _Christian Kane, "Fast Car"_

* * *

The first thing Sam is aware of when he comes to is that his chest is burning. He can barely draw in a breath and when he does, he wants to cough, as if his body is trying to reject the oxygen he so desperately needs. Adrenaline courses through his veins and the feeling of panic starts to well up, but he remembers his father's training and forces himself to count his breaths, to listen to the erratic rhythm of his heart beat. Panicking won't do him any good. He needs to assess the situation, needs to get control over whatever has happened.

Turning his head causes him to groan, the muscles stinging from what must've been whiplash, but he forces himself to survey his surroundings.

"Shit."

He's in the Impala, or at least, what's left of what used to be the only home he's ever known. He can barely make out the familiar shape of the car and the fact that he's upside down means the car must've flipped at least once. He was resting against the windshield, which had cracked but miraculously hadn't shattered. It was a good thing too or Sam might've been flung out of the car. As it stood now though, he had to get out. Then, he could piece together what had occurred in the first place.

"C'mon." Blood dribbles down his lip, the metallic copper taste landing on his tongue and he spits it out, trying not to focus on the fact that he might be bleeding internally. His head pounds and he can't really focus too hard on one thought for too long. What had he been doing in the Impala in the first place? How had he crashed?

Where was Dean?

Oh, God, Dean would kill him for this.

Well, if he survived, a sarcastic voice within him noted.

He tried to move, but a sharp pain in his chest caused him to stop. Broken ribs for sure. Maybe even a punctured lung. Sam wasn't going to get far with injuries like that. And with this road being in the middle of nowhere, he couldn't rely on medical assistance coming without him contacting them. He was on his own.

Just like Stanford.

What caused him to think of that? Stanford had been a whole other lifetime ago. A life that held the promise of normalcy, of a loving wife and kids, of a white picket fence and a home that he could welcome Dean and John into. Stanford hadn't just been for his sake—he'd gone to try and save his family. He knew the risky road that hunting led down. He hadn't wanted to lose his father or brother to a monster that went bump in the night. Stanford had been an escape route, a safe haven for them all. It was supposed to fix things. It was supposed to keep them alive together.

Instead, it led to them falling apart.

And the real irony, if Sam thought about it, is that he lost them both anyways. John had died so many years ago and frankly, after Hell, Sam stopped counting how many times he and Dean had died and come back. Sam is really on his own. He's been on his own for years now. There's no more father to carefully guide him, no more big brother to swoop down and fix everything. John was dead and Dean had changed. Maybe their relationship had fractured forever. Maybe they'd never be back to what they were.

Maybe, as brothers, they'd never be the same.

But now, trapped in the Impala, bleeding internally, his vision blurring before him, it occurs to Sam Winchester that this might just be it. This is how he meets his end—not on some hunt, but because of an accident. There's some sort of irony in that, he's sure, but he's too tired to figure it out. All he's knows is that he's going to die here.

"No, you're not."

Sam remembers that voice—the low timbre of it, the warmth hidden deep within the words. It's been years since he heard it, but he'd never forgotten it.

The youngest Winchester forces his eyes open and gasps.

"Dad?"

John Winchester is there, in the crushed car, a tired smile tugging his lips upwards. He's in the same clothes he always wore. He's not injured or possessed—it's just his dad, just as he always remembered him. It's impossible, but there John is, like nothing has changed, like he never died in the first place.

"Dad—" Sam coughs, the force of it wracking his body, and more blood stains his lips.

This is a trick. It must be. A sign of Sam's impending doom or even shock setting in. They'd salted and burned John. He's gone, never coming back. Sam is supposed to be on his own.

But John is here, exuding a confidence that Sam tries to channel but fails at. His father is back and somehow, Sam realizes just how much he's missed John's presence. Because as much as they used to fight, Sam always respected John, always loved John. He loved his dad. He felt safe with him.

When John died all those years ago, a part of Sam died too. And he never really got the chance to grieve because Dean was spiraling out of control and Sam needed to be an anchor for his brother. His own feelings became secondary to his older brother's until one day, the grief was buried so far down that Sam was afraid to bring it up again for fear of melting down.

So, he just never thought about it. Never allowed himself to dwell on his father's last few days or the regrets he felt.

Because while grief is supposed to be a process, really it's a journey, one that Sam has never really wanted to be on. Some days, he's angry with his father. Other days, he misses him fiercely.

But mostly, Sam feels guilty.

Really guilty.

"Dad." Sam manages to get out, though he can still taste the blood on the tip of his tongue. He's in trouble here. But even so, he has to tell him, "Dad, I—"

There might not be enough time to say the words he should've said so many years ago.

But John just meets his gaze and Sam finds his voice fading away.

"Hang on, Sammy." John's calloused hands rest on Sam's shoulders and he grits his teeth, "This might hurt."

And then he tugs.

* * *

The pain is blinding and blissfully, Sam blacks out for a few seconds and when he comes to, he's lying on the dirt road, his cellphone in his hand, a call to Dean having just been placed, according to the recent calls tab. Did he make that call? He must've, somehow. Yet, his brain is hazy and really, when he thinks about how he got out of the car—

"Dad?"

It's impossible. John is gone. Sam missed his chance. He'll never be able to tell his father the truth—that yes, he did love him, even though they fought all the time, even though Sam sometimes wondered if John did care for him as much as he did for Dean—and really, that's just his Winchester luck.

John is dead.

It's over.

"Dad." He exhales, his lungs rattling as he coughs once more. Blood stains his lips. His body is on fire. He'll die soon, if helps doesn't come. Dean might arrive too late.

It's over.

"You're going to be fine, Sammy."

John sits next to him, a hand resting on Sam's chest. His eyes are tired, but he hasn't aged a day since Sam last saw him and this has to be some sort of trick, a side effect of the blood loss, but if it is, Sam doesn't care. He's missed his dad and grieved for him every day. Time hasn't dulled his grief for the regrets have always been there. How, the last time Sam saw his father alive, they had argued. John died thinking his youngest hating him. And Sam always wanted to take those words back, to make peace with father—

"I know, Sam." John smiles, that smile he used to give him whenever Sam did something right in school or on a hunt, a proud grin, "Just close your eyes."

There are so many more words that Sam wants to say, but in that moment, with his father's hand on his chest, reassuring him that no, he's not alone, he's ever been alone, Sam lets his eyes fall shut.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I usually write stories where Sam and John are in a strained part of their relationship. It felt nice to actually write something where John shows he cares. Because, deep down, I do think John cared. He just had a hard time showing it. Anyways, I would love to hear what you thought. Please review! Thanks._


End file.
